Something Like Winter

by Jay Bell

  “You can kiss me if you want.”

  Chapter Two

  The small sketchbook pages felt impossible to fill as the Oklahoma scenery whizzed by. Not that scenery was an apt description, since there wasn’t anything to see. Tim had grown up in Kansas, accustomed to horizons filled with farmland, but also housing developments and strip malls. Oklahoma seemed deserted by comparison, so Tim tried creating more interesting worlds on paper, but sketching wasn’t his forte.

  When creating art, he found the pen frustrating, its scratching ugly compared to the silken motion of a paintbrush. Ink was stationary, permanent, and damning once on paper. A thick glob of paint could be sculpted, scraped, and moved. He missed the colors the most, the wet hues. Markers, chalks, and various inks—Tim had tried them all, but none were vibrant enough or spoke to his soul like paint did.

  The SUV pulled to the right, slowing as his father guided it down an exit ramp. Tim tossed aside the sketchbook. He had managed a couple of drawings, but they would remain chicken scratches until the movers showed up with his art supplies.

  “Where are we?”

  Neither parent responded from the front seat, so Tim looked out the window until he spotted stores and car dealerships that incorporated the location’s name: Oklahoma City. They had returned to civilization.

  “That looks like a nice restaurant,” his mother said at a stop light.

  His father’s eyes met Tim’s in the rearview mirror. What was he thinking? That they usually dined out alone? That it would be awkward having Tim along for what was normally a romantic occasion?

  “Thomas,” Tim’s mother prompted.

  “We’re making good time, Ella. After the tank is full, we’ll get some fast food on the way out of town.”

  “Well, stop there anyway so I can use the restroom. At least it will be clean.”

  Tim turned his attention back to the outside world. When the car parked and his mother got out, he found himself more comfortable people-watching than facing the silence in the car. What would they talk about, anyway? Besides sports, of course, but Tim wasn’t in the mood for that.

  The radio clicked on, voices babbling back and forth rather than singing. Thomas liked talk radio, Tim’s mother tiring of it easily, so now was his father’s only opportunity. The voices were prattling on about some Defense of Marriage Act, a title that sounded ridiculous, like too many weddings had been gunned down by mobsters and needed military protection. Tim paid more attention when the debate became heated.

  “This isn’t a bipartisan issue,” one voice on the radio argued. “President Clinton himself said, when interviewed by gay magazine, The Advocate, ‘I remain opposed to same-sex marriage. I believe marriage is an institution for the union of a man and a woman. This has been my long-standing position, and it is not being reviewed or reconsidered.’ So you see—”

  Thomas turned down the radio. “Maybe there’s hope for the Democrats yet,” he said as his wife reached the car.

  Tim didn’t respond.

  Next they cut across the street to the nearest gas station. Only when Thomas finished pumping gas and went to pay, did Tim’s mother turn around in the seat to face him. She was always like that. Her husband was the focus of her world. Tim admired her devotion, in a way, but it always came at his expense. The irritation must have shown on his face, because she responded to it.

  “There will be other girls,” Ella said. “I know leaving your girlfriend behind can be hard, but you are young and handsome.”

  Could she be more clueless? Tim was sure he told her that he and Carla had broken up. As soon as Carla had started spreading the rumors, all Tim had done was mope around the house. How could his parents have missed that? Hadn’t they sensed his relief when they announced the move to Texas?

  The timing couldn’t have been better, not that the two events were related. His father wanted to sort out the southern division of his company, the regional manager having been dismissed under allegations of embezzlement. Ella worked as a translator for a company that had locations all over the country, so the move wasn’t inconvenient for her. If his parents had wondered what Tim thought about being uprooted halfway through high school, they hadn’t bothered to ask.

  “You know I hate it when you look sad, Gordito.”

  Tim sighed, his anger draining away. His mom did hate seeing him unhappy. When she wasn’t preoccupied with her husband, like when Thomas was out of town for business, she lavished attention on Tim. Her elegant lashes would bat in his direction, like they did now, and she would smile until he couldn’t help joining her. Then she would baby him like he was still a kid and treat him like the most important person in the world, Tim forgiving her for all the lonely days when he felt ignored.

  He forced himself to smile. “I’m all right.”

  “Moving can be hard,” Ella said. “When I decided to come back here with your father—oh, my heart nearly broke! You always see Mexicans on television eager to get into the USA. Not me. It was the most difficult decision I ever made.”

  Tim could sympathize. His parents visited Mexico City every couple of years, and for those trips only, they actually brought Tim along. That had everything to do with his grandmother, a leathery old woman who had spent a lifetime in the sun. She insisted on seeing her grandson. The one visit he hadn’t been brought along, his grandma had chewed out “The American,” as she called his father in sarcastic and heavily accented English. She was just as feisty and vital as the city she lived in, and Tim adored them both.

  “Too bad we can’t move there,” he said. “Couldn’t Dad commute to work from Mexico City?”

  Ella’s eyes lit up with the idea, and she laughed. Then the driver’s side door opened, and her head turned back to her husband. His parents haggled over the choice of fast-food restaurants, Tim forgotten until it came time to order. He wanted his burger without pickles or onions, and when they got to the window, they were told to pull forward to wait while their order was prepared. His father’s eyes met his again in the rearview mirror, seeming to blame him for the inconvenience, until Ella filled the silence.

  “We have to pray before we keep travelling.”

  “We did before we left.” Tim complained.

  “And it got us this far safely.”

  Ella closed her eyes and bowed her head, her husband doing the same as she launched into her favorite Spanish prayer. Tim watched her. She wasn’t pushy about religion. Her devotion was so strong that she assumed everyone shared her belief. No one needed to be converted to Catholicism because in her mind, everyone already belonged to God, one way or another.

  Even when Tim refused to go to church anymore, she simply said she would pray for them both—that God was always with him no matter where Tim did or didn’t go. To his mom, even the interior of an SUV could become a church, the beige leather seats transformed into pews, the dashboard an altar.

  What the hell. Just for her, Tim closed his eyes and bowed his head.

  * * * * *

  The rhythm of the tires changed, Tim jarring awake in response. He smacked his mouth and pulled his head away from the puddle of drool. Not the best treatment for leather seats, but oh well. The car stopped, the turn signal clicking. With any luck, they had finally arrived. His mother kept murmuring how beautiful it all was. Tim remained reclined until his head cleared and his hard-on subsided. Then he sat up and took in his new home town.

  The Woodlands. The name sounded like a country club, not a city. What sort of place started with “The”? Inspiration for the name was obvious: trees, trees, and more trees. Aside from the occasional shopping center sign, they could have been in the middle of a forest.

  “Doesn’t look like much is here,” Tim said loud enough to be heard in the front seat.

  “There’s plenty,” his father responded. “It’s all behind the trees. I couldn’t find a thing the first time I visited. The offices are just through there.”

  The street split off to the right, and for a moment they
could glimpse a parking lot and a generic office building before the camouflage of trees returned. As they drove farther into town, they saw some areas that were more exposed. Man-made lakes, for instance, nestled up against parks and housing developments.

  One thing was for sure—and Tim hoped this was the last time the damned saying would spring to mind—he wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Everything here was flat, the horizon hidden. The sensation was almost claustrophobic, but he soon took to the idea. He had wanted to flee his former life. What better place to hide than a city that couldn’t be seen?

  The neighborhood they pulled into fit the anonymous theme, its houses soullessly new. Some didn’t appear lived-in yet, a handful still under construction.

  “¡Muy hermosa!” his mother said in approval as they pulled into a driveway. The three-car garage meant room for both cars—once Ella’s was transported down—and his father’s boat. To the left, entryway windows stretched up to the second story, a huge iron lamp hanging over the front porch. For one Twilight Zone moment, the house looked so similar to their previous home in Kansas that Tim thought they had retuned there. He knew this one didn’t have a pool, which sucked, but he hoped his room and the studio space in the basement were decent.

  He helped his dad get the luggage out of the back and followed him to the garage entrance. Tim expected the inside of the house to be hollow like the one they had left behind. Instead he found a half-furnished home. A dining room table without chairs was already decorated with fabric placemats and a floral centerpiece, even though no one could sit there.

  The other rooms were in a similar state. The living room had curtains and a couch, but nothing else. Toward the back of the house, down a hallway and past the guest bathroom was another room with a leather sofa that smelled new. A big-screen TV dominated one wall. To the side, a built-in mini bar was just begging for someone to mix a cocktail.

  “Please tell me this is my room,” Tim said as his mother entered.

  “Uh-uh. This is your father’s den, as he calls it.” She snorted. “Like he’s a bear.”

  “So where’s my den?”

  “Upstairs, first on the left.” Ella considered the walls and tsked impatiently. “The decorators didn’t hang a single thing!”

  He left his mother to fuss over some frames leaning in one corner. Returning to the front of the house, Tim grabbed his suitcase and sprinted up the stairs. Everything had that brand-new feel only found in model homes. Nothing had been used yet, like all of this was part of some weird museum exhibit, forever preserving what life was like in nineteen ninety-six.

  Tim checked the other rooms first. The largest was obviously the master bedroom, another had a stylish writing desk in it, and one was completely empty. Finally, Tim went to his room, feeling more excited about the move as he opened the door. Inside was a bed, already fully made, and an entertainment center/dresser combo where his TV should fit. One long window provided a view of the backyard, and best of all, he had direct access to his own bathroom. No more darting through the hall in a towel every morning.

  Tim sat on the bed. For the first time in his life, he had a blank slate. He could reinvent himself, become something more. His life was the canvas now, empty and begging for lines and color, direction and depth. This room, a simple space and four walls, would be the center of his new world, beyond it a city and people unknown to him. No more familiar streets burdened with names of old friends and tired memories. Just fresh potential for him to breathe in and revitalize himself with. Tim was on the verge of something exciting and new. Life would be better, more than it had been before. He would be better.

  Tim sprang off the bed and swung his suitcase onto the mattress. He dialed in the combination, the locks clicked open, and the suitcase opened to a whiff of air from another state. Hello, Kansas. Goodbye, Kansas. Opening a dresser drawer, he started shoveling in his clothes, taking extra care when he got to the T-shirt with the porn magazines wrapped inside. Not wanting the movers to discover them, Tim had packed them himself, but now he felt seedy unloading smut from his suitcase, like a desperate travelling salesman. Something about a long drive always made him horny, probably the constant vibration of the road. In fact, he wouldn’t mind a quick—

  The door to his room opened. In one smooth motion, Tim tossed the contraband-stuffed shirt into the drawer and shut it. His mom strolled in none the wiser and gave a cursory inspection.

  “I told them the cranberry comforter, not brown. Why in the world would the decorators choose brown? Cranberry would have looked so nice next to your dark hair.” Ella’s gaze swiveled between Tim and the comforter, trying to decide if they matched or not. Depending on how expensive the comforter was, Tim wasn’t sure if it would go or he would.

  “Hey, where’s the basement door?” he asked. “I want to check out my studio space.”

  His mother shook her head distractedly. “There aren’t any basements down here.”

  “What? Why wouldn’t they have basements?”

  Ella looked puzzled. “Because there aren’t as many tornados, I guess. No tornados, no need to hide in the basement like rats.”

  “Well, where am I going to paint?” Tim huffed.

  “We’ll find you a space, Gordito, don’t worry.”

  “What about the empty room up here?”

  “Don’t be silly. That’s the guest room. Your old bed is going in there.”

  Tim stared at her. When did they ever have guests? His parents didn’t have friends, aside from his father’s business associates and their spouses. None of them would stay over for some sort of grown-up slumber party. He tried picturing his father having a pillow fight with some other old guy in a business suit and couldn’t.

  “If they think that’s cranberry, they’re color blind,” his mother said, her attention back on the bed.

  Tim spotted his jogging clothes in the suitcase and grabbed them. If he wasn’t going to find release sexually, this was the next best thing. He went downstairs to the guest bathroom, which was completely bare and should be safe from his mother’s inspections, and stripped off his clothes. After flexing his muscles in the mirror to satisfy his inner narcissist, he pulled on the navy shorts and gray Kansas University tank top. He made a note to toss the shirt in the trash later, rather than the laundry hamper. Then he sat on the toilet and slipped on his blue running shoes. Half a minute later, Tim was outside pounding pavement.

  This. Oh god, this! There was nothing that made him feel so centered, so calm, as running did. Not at first, of course, but as he warmed up and his breath found the right rhythm, all his worries melted away. He’d heard people talk about endorphins, and maybe that was part of it, but there had to be more. Jogging was like meditation on the go. How monks could meditate while sitting on their butts, Tim had no clue. He needed to move, his body completely occupied, skin covered with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. Only then could silence fill his soul.

  He slowed to a trot, almost unwillingly, and stopped. Between two houses was a paved trail a bit wider than the average sidewalk. In the summer dusk, he couldn’t see much except the path leading into the shadow of trees ahead. Fences lined either side, meaning it couldn’t belong to the neighboring homes. Still panting, Tim ran toward the darkness to see what he would find.

  * * * * *

  What Tim discovered over the next month is that the trees of The Woodlands hid more than just buildings. Winding throughout the city like a miniature network of roads were bike paths—as the natives called them—that snaked through neighborhoods, connecting everything from shopping centers to public parks.

  Tim explored them with caution. The only downside to the bike paths going everywhere was that if he wasn’t careful, he could end up anywhere. Those nearest his home led to a small park—not much more than a playground and a small lake. Tim always began by jogging around this body of water, returning the same way. Each time he would run a little farther, explore the paths a bit more before retracing his steps. If he tired
of a route, he would choose a different fork and begin again.

  With his things unpacked, his room set up, and summer drawing to a close, Tim found himself glad that school was starting soon, if only for the chance to socialize. Exploring his new surroundings was becoming dull, and with both his parents working, Tim longed for something more.

  Of course, he still couldn’t paint. A week before his birthday, Tim decided he’d had enough. He set up an easel in the guest room and grabbed a canvas he had made a rough sketch on. No one had been in this room since his mother finished decorating it. His hands shook with excitement as he squeezed paint on to the palette, but grew steady again when he dipped in his brush. Sometimes he worked cautiously, every stroke bringing his vision into reality. That had been his intention today, but as soon as the brush touched canvas, his joy was too great.

  Like fevered sex after a long period of abstinence, Tim gave into instinct, letting passion dictate his every move. He started with greens, browns, and whites, thinking of the trees he’d been running past and the way light filtered through their leaves. Then he went for purple, just for the sheer hell of it, dragging it through this world of branches over and over again and creating segments, each separated by dark borders like stained glass. A forest of stained glass… stained wood. He liked that.

  “Tim.”

  He spun around. Usually his mom was the first one home, but not today. His father eyed the surroundings, the mess Tim had made, everything but the painting itself. “Your mother is going to be furious.”

  And that was that. Thomas left the room, not needing to say more. Tim looked around, noticing paint splatters on the carpet. He should have put down newspaper first.

  “It’s not like anyone ever comes in here!” Tim shouted after him, but there was no reply.

  He considered the painting once more. For a first try, it wasn’t bad. He’d have to go over the purple with midnight blue to pull in the theme of sky, but it had potential… if he ever found a place to finish it.